Frost on leaves

click photo to enlarge
I've mentioned a few times some of the themes that have developed in my photography during the lifetime of this blog - chairs, benches, church vaulting, deliberate blur, shadows, reflections, to name but a few. Today's photograph is another - leaves.

I like leaves for their shapes, colours, lines  and patterns. I also like them when frost subdues their colours, adds emphasising outlines to their shapes and lines, and gives a "hairy" look to leaves. The first few frosts of the year were weak, leaving only a little impression on the fallen leaves. But a few days ago stronger frosts made much better effects, good enough for me to mount the macro lens on the camera and search some out. The photograph shows the underside of a large field maple leaf that is surrounded by smaller leaves from the same tree and flowering cherry leaves from a neighbouring tree. Soon the leaves will have decayed too much for this kind of shot so I was glad to get it.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Photo Title: Frosted Leaves
Camera: Olympus E-M10
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 60mm macro (120mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/125 sec
ISO:800
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Too colourful wheelie bins

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My household refuse is disposed of in one of three wheelie bins; the landfill bin that is mid-green, the green waste bin that is brown(!) and the recycling bin that is bright blue. We hide them out of sight behind a short length of fence that I erected for the purpose and in front of which I have grown Cotoneaster franchettii. The contents of each bin is taken away every fortnight by a large refuse vehicle. For this to happen I have to put the bins near the road that passes my property.

Now I can just about live with the subdued brown and green bins but that blue bin drives me to distraction. On the morning they are emptied the village looks like it has been invaded by blue extraterrestrials that are standing guard outside each house, the blueness of each one forcing itself on to my eyeballs. Who decided blue would be good colour for a wheelie bin? Has that person ever been asked his or her reasons for selecting it? Its even worse in towns where smaller properties can't easily hide away the bins. There the blue bins are on permanent display negatively affecting everyone's "visual amenity". More thoughtful local authorities chose grey or a brick-like dark red/orange: I've even seen a dark purple. Such colours are a much less glaring addition to the street scene.

When I was photographing the frost on the date of manufacture of my blue wheelie bin I wondered how much longer the receptacle would last, and whether there were any plans in hand to introduce a better colour as the blue bins expired. But then I reflected that at thirteen years of age they are mere teenagers, probably have several more years to go, and there's little chance that anyone in authority thinks as I do. Perhaps I should plant the thought in their minds.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Photo Title: Frosted Date On Recycling Bin
Camera: Olympus E-M10
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 60mm macro (120mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/125 sec
ISO:500
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Frozen tomatoes

click photo to enlarge
The tomatoes in the greenhouse are green and growing nicely. Those outdoors are ready to set but mainly have yellow flowers showing where each fruit will appear. And in the kitchen the tomatoes of last year are regularly being turned into bowls of soup.

Today's photograph shows some of those frozen tomatoes, out of the freezer in a bowl, thawing out before being prepared for soup making. I always like to see them with the brightness of their shiny red skins subdued by the covering of frost, so I thought I'd photograph them before they're all gone and newly picked tomatoes take their place.

© Tony Boughen

Camera: Canon 5DMk2
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 100mm Macro
F No: f2.8
Shutter Speed: 1/13
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation:  +0.33
Image Stabilisation: On

A touch of strong colour

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Ever since mankind has created pictures colour has been a key element of the armoury of the artist. Colour is powerful, seductive, noticeable and descriptive. But, as photographers who favour black and white often claim, it can overwhelm an image, introduce a note or mood the artist doesn't require, or detract from the essence of what is offered. Consequently, artists have often sought to use colour sparingly, recognising as cooks do with their herbs and spices, that a little can go a long way. Since the rise of colour photography that has been one of the approaches that photographers have adopted too.

Several years ago, when I was more involved than I am today with the wider photographic community, I acquired a reputation for photographs that included a strong but small note of vivid colour (often red) in an otherwise relatively muted colour palette. In fact, my second post on PhotoReflect, way back on 24th December 2005, "The Power of Colour" both exemplifies and discusses that approach to composition. I continue to periodically produce photographs with that characteristic, such as this photograph of a ladybird or this one of a snagged red net bag by the sea.

One recent morning, on a shopping trip to Sleaford, Lincolnshire, I had the opportunity to add another such image to my collection. By a small pond, at the end of a wooden walkway that stretched from the path to a small fishing jetty, was a bright orange life belt. The overnight frost had laid a veneer of white over timber and vegetation, reducing the impact of these colours and emphasising the vivid orange circle. Holding my camera above my head to make more of the timber path and rails as a line into the composition I took the photograph that I offer today.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Sony RX100
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 10.4mm (28mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/40 sec
ISO:125
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Fern frost

click photo to enlarge
Those of us who grew up in 1950s and 1960s Britain will remember frost patterns on the windows of the houses in which we lived. Sometimes they were on the outside but often we'd wake up in winter to find them on the inside. Double glazing and central heating have banished frosted windows for most people, but the absence of those two conveniences will result in the phenomenon even today.

They occur inside when there is air below freezing point outside and moist air inside that condenses on the cold glass as ice crystals. What has always fascinated me - and everyone I've spoken to about this kind of frost - is the form of the patterns that are produced. The most common type seem to be a shape similar to leaves or fern fronds. Quite how and why this shape results is a mystery to me, and a quick search doesn't produce a clear or detailed answer. It seems that the composition of the surface of the glass, particularly its imperfections, are contributory factors, but a fuller explanation is not easily found.

Today's photograph was taken on a recent early morning after a cold night. The icy patterns, commonly called fern frost, were on the outside of the windscreen of a parked car. The low sun that was obscured by trees was strong enough to produce a directional light that emphasised the details of the delicate "leaves".

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 100mm
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/100
ISO: 500
Exposure Compensation:  -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On 

Frosted windows

click photo to enlarge

It's ironic that one of the ways in which shopkeepers and some householders seek to evoke Christmas cheer is to decorate their windows by spraying fake frost and snow on them. Those of us old enough to recall frost on the inside of windows don't wish to be reminded of the days when this was a regular occurrence.

In the the UK in the 1950s and 1960s, when central heating was a rarity, it was unusual for anywhere beyond the living room and kitchen to be heated. They usually had coal fires which radiated heat and warmed the front of those sitting around them, but left their backs and the rest of the room much cooler. Winter bedrooms were chilly places where blankets, eiderdowns (no duvets in those days) and hot water bottles fought valiantly, but usually in vain, to keep the cold at bay. A freezing night where the temperature dropped well below 32 Fahrenheit (no Centigrade of Celsius then either) would result in the single-glazed windows having a frost pattern in the morning as the cold surface of the glass attracted condensation which then froze.

I was reminded of those times when I walked around the village in the snow and frost with my camera the other day. Today's photograph presented itself on the window of a Victorian-period house that is currently empty. The temperature outside was about -13 Celsius. In the house it must have been a good few degrees below zero. These low temperatures had produced the sight familiar to my childhood eyes, and I couldn't help reciting the words of the poem that I learnt at that time.  It begins Watch out, watch out, Jack Frost is about, He's after your fingers and toes..." Perhaps you know it.

Incidentally, today's photograph is a colour shot (you can see a slight hint of brown at the bottom right) yet somehow it seems right that this icy subject should be devoid of any of the warmth that colour brings to an image.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 80mm
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/60 sec
ISO: 1600
Exposure Compensation:  0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Wheelie bin bother

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As far as wheelie bins (the colloquial  name for Britain's refuse and recycling bins) go, there are three kinds of people to be found: those who do, those who don't and those who can't. I'm not talking about the inability of some people to properly sort their refuse for recycling; that's perhaps the subject for a different post. No, on this occasion we are back in the realms of blots on the landscape and visual blight and, more specifically, the willingness, unwillingness or lack of facility to hide these ugly bins from view when they are in daily use.

If your house is in a terrace with little or no front garden and no easy access to the back then it's hard to hide your bins away. Your property wasn't designed with such things in mind and they need to be accessible for emptying. Consequently they very often have to be in plain sight of passers-by: there's not much you can do about it. Many properties, however, have space out of sight where bins can be placed for daily use and where they are not an eyesore to the locals and passers-by. Most people with this facility make use of it. But some don't, and the wretched bins stick out like spots and scabs on the face of the village, town or city. It may be due to indolence, it could be a lack of aesthetic sensibilities, or perhaps there are reasons too deep for me to fathom. Some local authorities, including the one responsible for my refuse and recycling collections don't help matters by choosing colours that have no place in a street scene. In my case it's a garish blue, but I have seen purple elsewhere. Sober green or brown, and even dismal grey - all colours in widespread use - have a chance of blending with the background. Every screaming blue and mad purple wheelie bin shouts its presence. At times they are collectively cacophonous.

Today's photograph shows the frosty recycling logo on the top of one of my wheelie bins. It sits with its partners out of sight at the back of my house. It could never be seen from the road. However, when I moved in it was visible from much of the rear and side of the house so I built a section of fence behind which they are now hidden. Such are my feelings about these eyesores!

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 100mm macro
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 160 sec
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation:  -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Fost and frog...

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...is what sometimes comes out of the weather forecaster's mouth when delivering his or her predictions in front of the TV camera or radio microphone. This spoonerism of "frost and fog" is as much of a verbal trap for such people as "It is customary to kiss the bride" coming out as "It is kisstomary to cuss the bride" is for a clergyman. Though the latter has got to be apocryphal, hasn't it?

The cold weather that has affected much of Europe in the past week has been felt in Britain, though thankfully to a lesser extent. Night time temperatures have been well below normal for early February and these have been followed by first a light and then a heavy and widespread fall of snow. It doesn't take much of the white stuff to get me out and about with my camera. However, mist and fog accompanied the first morning and my photographs reflect this.

Today's shot shows a derelict barn surrounded by a few trees out in the ploughed fields. The fog has done its usual trick of isolating the foreground and mid-ground from the background. This shot on a clear day would have the houses, trees and church spire of a distant village breaking up the horizon and detracting from my subject. As it is, there is no horizon to speak of and only the hint of what long ago ceased to be a useful agricultural building.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 249mm
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/500 sec
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation:  +0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Seeing what I see

click photos to enlarge

Due to my power supply failure I've been publishing blog posts from my second computer for several days now. When I've been looking at earlier posts produced on my main computer I've become very aware of the slight but significant difference in the way many images appear. My main computer is calibrated with an electronic device made for the purpose. The computer I'm currently using isn't. I could calibrate it, I suppose, but then I'd have to go through the process of adjusting my screen again when I receive and install my new power supply. And, to be blunt, calibration is a real pain, something that I do reasonably regularly anyway, and the prospect of doing it again unnecessarily doesn't appeal to me.

The upshot is, some of my earlier posts have "blown" areas in them when viewed on this machine, and I suppose those prepared on this machine will appear to be a touch dark when I get back to viewing them on my main computer. Does that matter? Well, yes and no. It matters to me in that I want to prepare photographs to the best of my ability and in the way that suits me. However, I have always been aware that other people viewing them on their computers may or may not have their screen calibrated and consequently may or may not see what I see regardless of whether or not I calibrate my computer. Even those with a calibrated machine may not see them quite as I see them, such are the dark arts of of this process.

All of which is my way of saying that if you detect a deterioration in the quality of my photographs that may account for it. On the other hand they may look better for you and you could be wondering what on earth I'm talking about! And with that remark I'll be quiet and say that today's trio of shots of St Helen, Brant Broughton, Lincolnshire, show the exterior and interior of a church, the architecture of which, I hold in high regard. I've posted a couple of images of this church before (this roof and this tower vaulting), and if you'd like to know more about the building have a look at those earlier posts.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Photo 1
Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 27mm
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/400 sec
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation:  -0.67 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Frosted leaves

click photo to enlarge

At the time of writing this blog entry winter has been pretty average in terms of weather. The temperatures haven't dropped too low but we've had a few frosts, there has been no snow and rain has been scarce but probably sufficient. There have been January gales causing damage to trees and buildings but, as far as this part of the UK goes, on the whole I'm glad to say that the extremes of the last two winters have been absent. I say, "on the whole" because, of course, weather extremes are food and drink for the photographer. The transformations wrought on familiar locations by hoar frost, snow or fog inspires us to take "different" photographs of familiar subjects.

The closest I've come to that recently was a wander around the garden on a few frosty mornings in search of a shot or two. I came back with very little of consequence but was moderately pleased with the two photographs I'm showing today. The first one with the Choisya appealed for the way the frost had given a white border to each leaf. This particular clump was projecting forward out of the main bush and consequently was better lit than the darker background. I emphasised this effect by a little digital "burning", that is to say darkening the areas behind the leaves a little more.

The Cotoneaster franchettii is an evergreen shrub that loses a small proportion of its leaves each winter. I photographed this particular hedge on a bright autumn day when it was loaded with red berries, but I prefer this photograph taken in January dullness for the way the colours glow against the backdrop. I also made this effect more pronounced, applying a dark vignette to the image.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Photo 1
Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 100mm macro
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/20 sec
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation:  0 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off

Merry Christmas

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Anyone who knows me well knows that I am lukewarm about Christmas. I don't especially look forward to the arrival of the festivities, and do tend to be glad when the calendar says January 1st. It wasn't always so. As a child I couldn't wait for it to be upon me - the special food, presents, and events all being something to relish. When my children were small I enjoyed it enormously through them, and always strove to make it something special. But, as I've got older it has palled somewhat for me. I really dislike seeing the arrival of Christmas merchandise in the shops during early October, the conspicuous consumption doesn't appeal, and the frenzied shopping in December is something to be avoided or endured rather than enjoyed. I continue to like some of the traditions, and the carols have an enduring attraction for me, but on the whole it's not my favourite time of year.

What also impacts negatively on my feelings at this time is the period between Christmas and the start of the new year, a sort of hiatus when the country has ground to a halt apart from "The Sales". That particular week is the only one in the year that I'm glad to see the back of. During those days I'm ready for January to start, ready for the chance to look forward and to plan rather than to look back, and I'm ready for the daylight hours to start to lengthen. If, after reading that, you think I must be pretty miserable at Christmas, let me say that I'm not. I don't ask much of Christmas - time with my family and friends, a few good films on television, and weather that lets me get out and about, walking with my camera, - that's all I require to be entirely happy.

So why, I imagine you may be thinking, does today's photograph show a lonely, frost covered bench in the unused corner of a frozen cemetery rather than colourful holly against a blue sky (last year's Christmas shot), a festive bauble (2008), or Christmas coffee (2006)? Does it reflect an end of year gloom that has descended on the Boughen household? The answer to that is a resounding no. The fact is I've simply been too busy to shoot anything more suitable, and this was the next image in the queue for posting!

So, as I take a break from blogging for a few days, let me say to everyone who visits on a regular or a sporadic basis, Merry Christmas to you and to your nearest and dearest, and I hope you have a splendid new year! Now I'm off to see when the 1951 film version of Charles Dickens', "A Christmas Carol", is on TV. Alastair Sim is the definitive Scrooge - my hero!

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 45mm
F No: f9
Shutter Speed: 1/50
ISO: 1000
Exposure Compensation: -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Jack Frost

click photo to enlarge
"Look out, look out,
Jack Frost is about,
He's after our fingers and toes,
And all through the night
The gay little sprite
Is working where nobody knows.

He’ll climb each tree,
So nimble is he,
His silvery powder he’ll shake.
To windows he’ll creep
And while we’re asleep
Such wonderful pictures he’ll make.

Across the grass
He’ll merrily pass,
And change all its greenness to white.
Then home he will go
And laugh ho, ho ho!
What fun I have had in the night."
children's poem by C. E. Pike

On more than one occasion recently, when talking to friends of my sort of age, the subject of ice on windows has cropped up. Most people who grew up in the United Kingdom in the 1950s, and even the 1960s, unless they were very well-off or raised in modern houses, remember waking up on cold winter mornings to find ice on the inside of their single-glazed bedroom windows. It's something that my children find barely credible, and yet we thought nothing of it: that's just the way it was, and we appeared to be none the worse for it. Of course, it's not something I'd like to return to, and it's a phenomenon that these days I rarely see anywhere. But I did the other morning.

As I stood at the kitchen window watching the birds eating the seed and scraps that I'd put out for them I noticed my unheated greenhouse (glasshouse) was iced up. At a distance it looked like the ice had formed the sort of feathery patterns that I remember from my childhood. So, I grabbed the LX3 and went to investigate. There were patterns, and they were best seen from inside the greenhouse. Those on the roof were the most elaborate and, remarkably, each pane of roof glass had a quite different pattern. Some were more foliage-like, in a very William Morris chintz way, others resembled feathers that were either very fluffy or quite sparse. I took a few shots then I found one feathery pane with good contrast and light that displayed the patterns in a way that the camera could better record - see above.

The other thing I remember from these cold childhood mornings is my mother reciting the first few lines of the "Jack Frost" poem (above) as she pointed out the frost patterns. I know some schools still teach these verses to young children, but do parents? Perhaps there is less cause now that central heating and cars have all but banished the "wonderful pictures" and the need to experience cold from our lives.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Lumix LX3
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 5.1mm (24mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/500
ISO: 80
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Thinking about snow

click photo to enlarge
The coldest, snowiest weather that I recall occurred in 1963. I was growing up in the Yorkshire Dales at the time, and the fact of snow laying on the ground from Christmas to early March was something special. It meant "sledging" (i.e. using a small sleigh) whenever we wanted, snowball fights anytime the snow wasn't too powdery, and the ability to make slides on the ice day after day. The River Ribble froze hard enough to walk across it. On the hills Scaleber Force (a waterfall) froze producing icicles longer than a man. High winds made snow drifts several feet deep, and it was great fun to jump off low limestone cliffs into them - except for the occasion when my knee hit a rock hidden below the snow. I don't remember growing tired of the snow during that period, but I'm sure my mother grew tired of the wet footwear, gloves and other clothing that I kept producing.

Over the years I've experienced snow fairly regularly - in East Yorkshire, North Lancashire and now in Lincolnshire. And, as I've grown older, my liking for it has definitely diminished. I still get great pleasure from a day or two (perhaps three) of snow. I enjoy the visual and auditory transformation that it brings. I like walking in it and photographing it. But, after a few days it starts to become an inconvenience: travelling is more difficult, walking locally can be more dangerous, and essential tasks like shopping lose their tedium and instead become fraught as roads and car parks suffer the effects of freeze/thaw. The recent snow that fell before Christmas and lingered for over a week disappeared with some heavy rain. However, light snow and low temperatures have returned, and the weather forecasters are holding out the prospect of some more heavy falls.

Looking through my shots of a few days ago I came across the one above. It shows snow that had slumped down my greenhouse roof as the sun started to melt it, halted by an overnight freeze, and the small icicles that had formed extending down until they start to meet the frost on the glass rising up the panes from below. I quite liked the horizontal layers the subject presented - the blue-tinged snow with a fur-like look that shades to white at the bottom, then the jagged line of icicles against the dark background, and at the bottom the feathery-edged frost.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 150mm (300mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/200
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On